


Pain in the Back(side)

by methylviolet10b



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Fluff, Gen, Prompt Fic, pseudo-medical babble
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-13
Updated: 2012-12-13
Packaged: 2017-11-21 00:55:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/591610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/methylviolet10b/pseuds/methylviolet10b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Games doctors play.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pain in the Back(side)

**Author's Note:**

> Written for dan_nal_kali as a holiday present in response to a prompt. Such an unusual prompt, in fact, that I had to look it up to find out what it was! The prompt is a spoiler, so you'll find it at the bottom of the fic.

“C’mon, John.” Mike Stamford gestured with the hand holding his third glass of beer, somehow avoiding spilling any of the remnants in the bottom of the glass despite the exuberance of his gesture. “It’s your turn.”

“Yeah, John.” Bill Murray’s face was red with more than just the lingering sunburn from his most recent tour in Afghanistan.  “We’re about ready for another round.”

“Well, then, I guess if you’re all ready to buy…” A chorus of hoots greeted this sally, from the other five men crowded around the pub table.  John just grinned and rolled his shoulders. His eyes darted briefly towards Sherlock, who leaned against a nearby wall, his eyes alight with interest. “Okay, okay. Time for the next one, I get it. But Bill, you’re out for this one; you’re my witness.”

“Fair enough,” Bill agreed at once. “At least we can be sure that this one really happened. I’m still not sure I believe MacPherson’s story of a walk-in case of typhoid fever at his Kensington clinic.”

“Just because you couldn’t guess it from the stated symptoms,” MacPherson drawled. “It was a textbook case.”

“In _Kensington_?”

“Never mind, that’s old news now.” Mike stopped the incipient debate before it could truly begin. “Go on, John. Stump us, or buy the next round.”

“Right you are, then. Well, as you have undoubtedly guessed, this happened while I was serving with Bill. We were both on duty at the base hospital at that time. A young man came in. Twenty years old, infantry, good color, all vitals in normal ranges.” Heads nodded around the table.

“What was his complaint?”

“Lower back pain, along with a touch of chest pain.”

Bill grinned. “Oh, I remember this one!”

“Had he seen any recent action? Any explosions or concussive events?”

“Not at all. He and his unit had just come in, and hadn’t seen any more action than their usual rounds of pick-up rugby games.”

“Did he play?”

“Yes, an avid player.”

“Front or back?”

“Hooker for his scrum.”

Two of the doctors at the table exchanged significant glances with Bill. The others ignored it. Questions continued to fly. John answered them all promptly, his face giving nothing away.

Finally Bill tapped his watch. “Time, gentlemen. Time to make your guesses. What ailed this young soldier?”

“Well, it can’t have been a common rugby injury, or it wouldn’t count as rare, unusual, or unexpected,” Mike grumbled good-naturedly as he reached for a piece of scrap paper.

One minute later, each of the participants had written down his or her guess. One by one, Bill collected them and read them off (sometimes squinting to make out the writing, and not just because the light in the pub was dim at best). One by one, John shook his head. His grin grew wider with each misdiagnosis.

“I guess you’re all buying your own beers this time, plus mine and Bill’s,” John laughed. “You’re all wrong. The solider had – “

“…an abdominal aortic aneurysm.” Sherlock’s confident voice carried clearly through the pub chatter. All six doctors turned to stare at him.

Bill recovered first from his surprise. “Oh, you told him about this one?”

John was still staring at Sherlock, an amazed smile tugging at his lips. “No, I definitely did _not_. Sherlock, how on earth…?”

Sherlock grinned and held up his phone. “Elementary, John. I looked up the described symptoms as you described them.”

“There’s hundreds of possible matches, at least,” MacPherson sputtered.

“True, and if I didn’t know John, I would not have been able to narrow down the prospective causes enough to make an educated guess...”

“Oh, so you admit you were guessing!” John crowed.

“ _Educated_ guess, John.” Sherlock rolled his eyes before continuing. “As I was saying, it could have been any one of a wide number of diagnoses. But I know you, and your love of alliterations.”  

“Brilliant,” John breathed, his eyes alight with admiration. Seconds later, that light dimmed as he scowled in chagrin. “Oh, just brilliant, Sherlock! You just cost me a round of drinks!”

The other doctors burst out laughing.

Under cover of their laughter, Sherlock shook his head and spoke quietly, just to John. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to spoil your fun. But this is a much more interesting game than any of the ones the Yarders play on their pub night.”

John sighed, seeing the genuine regret on Sherlock’s face. “It’s all right. I’m just glad you’re having a good time.”

“And technically, I wasn’t playing, so you shouldn’t have to buy the next round.”

John grinned once more. “You’re right. _You_ buy it.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the following prompt: abdominal aortic aneurysm
> 
>  
> 
> Originally posted: December 22, 2011


End file.
